


Enfants de l'Orage

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wounded and on the run, Erik turns to the only refuge he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enfants de l'Orage

It was a calm night, too cloudy to show the stars. But somehow, she knew that there was a storm coming, just as well as she knew who was knocking at her door before she went to open.

He looked haunted, like a man on the run. His hair wild, his clothes torn and dirty, a huge gash on his left arm soaking the sheds of his shirt with blood. Without a word, she stepped aside and admitted him into her home.

"Let me have a look at the wound," she told him, in place of a greeting.

He winced as he shed his shirt. Cautiously, she reached out to touch the cut, realizing it was deeper than she had expected. "It needs to be sewn."

He shrugged, favoring the right shoulder. "Do what you have to do." It was the first thing he said that night - possibly the first time he'd said anything in days; and his voice sounded hoarse and flat, from lack of use and tiredness and perhaps resignation.

"I'm not a doctor," she objected. The sardonic look he sent her made her fall silent. Briskly, she nodded, and walked off to fetch a needle.

They sat down awkwardly - him in a low chair, his arm hanging down at his side, her on the floor beside him, eye-level with the wound. He didn't make a sound as the needle pierced his skin, but his hand clenched into a fist. She could only see the good side of his face from where she was sitting, but even that was tensed into a grimace, strangely illuminated by the light of the single candle on the floor next to her.

"It shouldn't have come to this," he said suddenly, without preamble.

She looked up to find his face blank, his eyes staring into the darkness. She thought of Christine, and the burnt opera house, and Buquet and Piangi. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "No, it shouldn't have." She did not even try to keep the accusation out of her tone. "You've gone too far this time, Erik."

She was not surprised when she did not get an answer. Wordlessly, she continued to close the cut. After a while, it was once again his voice which cut through the silence.

"How is she?"

She tensed, gripping the needle tighter. "I don't think you should -"

He didn't let her finish the sentence, repeating his question in a calm, authoritative voice. "Antoinette. How is she?"

"She is well," she answered, knowing that she should leave it at that. The question was answered; and there was no need to reveal any more. But the words spilt from her lips as if he was willing them to come out. "The Vicomte has taken her to his estate to rest for a while, after the events of the past week. I have not spoken to her myself, but Meg visited her. She said Christine spoke of marriage."

She watched his face as she spoke the words, but he showed no reaction.

"Erik?" she added quietly. "Do not go after them. Please."

He slowly turned his head to look at her. She couldn't tell whether he was staring at her or right through her. It should have frightened her, intimidated her at least, but it didn't; and she calmly held his gaze. It was only when he reached around with his right arm that she had to suppress a flinch. A large hand cradled her cheek. It was only a light touch, and yet she felt his strength in it, knowing that he could break her neck or strangle her before she had the chance to utter a sound. She stayed still, neither moving away from him nor leaning into the touch. His hand was warm, and surprisingly gentle. Their eyes were still locked; his expression remained unfathomable. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her like this; or if he saw her at all.

Finally, there was the barest hint of a smile on the disfigured face. "I won't."

His hand fell away from her face; and she felt strangely bereft. Silently chiding herself, she continued her work. They did not speak until she finished sewing the cut, the silence in the room only interrupted by the occasional sound of a branch of the tree in front of the window hitting the glass.

She drenched a piece of cloth with alcohol and carefully wiped it across the wound.

"This is all I can do," she said and stood up, wiping the blood from her hands. "It's not pretty, but…" She blushed when he looked at her with something akin amusement, bringing the scarred half of his face once again into view. She bit her lip, trying to cover her embarrassment over the silliness of her words. "Never mind." It was so easy to forget, sometimes…

She turned and took something from a drawer, handing it to him. "Meg found this when they were looking for Christine the other night. I… kept it for you."

He stared at the mask for a long moment. His finger gently moved over the white material, almost caressing. His hand was trembling as he put the mask on.

He stood and strode towards her; and she had to fight the urge to back away, reminding herself that he would not hurt her. Standing in front of her, his appearance still disheveled and dirty, but standing tall and carrying infinitely more dignity than when he had arrived at her door, he looked imposing. "Thank you." He leaned forward and, with a tenderness she had not expected, brushed a feather kiss on her forehead.

Quietly, she nodded, not trusting her voice. She did not look at him, her eyes lowered, but she could feel his gaze. Like electricity, it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up - a sensation not utterly unpleasant, but oddly frightening.

When he spoke again, his voice sounded formal. "I hate to ask you to grant me another favor, but I need clean clothes. I want to leave town tonight, but there is no way I can make it like this."

She looked up to him before turning away once again, her gaze wandering to the window, where the rhythmic sound of the rain against the glass echoed the drum of her heartbeat. "You should not go out tonight," she said, her eyes fixed on a point far away, somewhere in the darkness of the night out there. "There is a storm coming."

Finis


End file.
